A/N: I own nothing, only my ideas

P.S: If anyone is interested in Beta Reading, message me :)

Molly's hands shook as she plunged the needle deep into Sherlock's flesh. She got it over with quickly, then began following his instructions, exactly as he asked her too. First came his shoes, socks, and belt. She then rapidly removed his shirt and trousers, throwing a white sheet over him that she'd brought from home. Just the thought of him lying naked on the table while she burned his clothes made her uncomfortable.

The mask- for the toxins from the leather and fibers in his clothes- fit snuggly in his black curls and over his slack jaw. She bit her lip. The cold sweat on his body hadn't dried. Afraid to touch him further, she sat in her chair and waited for him to wake up. The dark basement room he'd told her to go to after retrieving his body was unfamiliar to her. It was the sort of place that felt like death. Like murder.

Although Sherlock had beaten Moriarty, he was dead to the world. A fraud to the crowds that once idolized him. It was no victory.

His breathing stuttered like a car engine, soon he'd be able to move- she hoped. The blood across his face and bruising already flowering told her he'd be in pain. Narcotics didn't seem safe, judging by his conversations with John. Still, she couldn't help wishing she had thought to buy some cigarettes for him.

It was another hour before the twitching of limbs, lips, and eyelids produced a moan. Molly nearly tripped running to him. She checked his pulse, and started when his eyebrows pulled together in pain.

"Sherlock?" Her voice cracked. "Can you hear me?"

He grunted. Molly let go of a breath she'd unconsciously been holding in. Even as relief rested upon her, guilt descended. Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade... This relief would never come to them. For the rest of their days they would live with the horrible ache in their chest and a bitterness towards a dark world. He cared for them. That's what this was all about. He'd faked his death so he could protect them. Sherlock Holmes didn't just care for people, he loved them.

She wondered, as his face relaxed again, and his breathing started coming from deeper in his diaphragm, what would happen next. Her mind took her back to the night before. Her tired body ready for sleep til he slipped out of the dark lab, needing her.

Molly's hand brushed aside his curls, then tenderly felt his pulse again. His eyes snapped open, making her shriek.

"Molly." Though his first word after the Fall had been her name, it certainly wasn't crooned from his lips.

"Oh-Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I- you scared me." She mumbled away, feeling hot, not just from the dying fire in the hearth.

He rolled his eyes. Her hands fumbled as she reached for the duffel bag. "These are the only things I had." She pulled out a mint colored cardigan, tight jeans, a faded gym shirt and a deep v-neck tee in a lime green. Though Sherlock was concentrating on sitting up, he had enough energy to look disgusted with the clothes she'd scrounged.

"I won't wear Moriarty's clothes."

"They're Jim from I.T's, if that makes you feel better." She had just saved his life, yet she got the feeling he wasn't about to stop complaining.

"Why did you keep them Molly? Not for sentimental reasons, you were embarrassed by your break-up. Doubly so, I'd imagine, after he was revealed to be James Moriarty." He took the cardigan, and begrudgingly took the jeans from her as an afterthought. "That was clever of you to keep them in case they were needed as evidence, but unnecessary after more than a year."

Molly packed her things quickly as he changed. "Keep the sheet."

"What time is it?"

"Ten."

Sherlock's eyes roamed the room, drifting from where she'd been sitting to the small window high in the wall above her. "John?"

Molly's heart broke a bit, at the tired sound in his voice. "He's safe. He was still at Barts when I left." His face was blank, the dried blood like a hand stretched across it. "He's probably with Mrs. Hudson, now."

"Where else would he be?" Sherlock demanded. He pulled the gym shirt from her hands. "Your father's sweater and old school gym shirt, you wear them to bed sometimes, judging by the worn logo and misshapen state. You can't bear to let them part from you- why?"

Molly expected him to answer his own question, but his gaze had steadied on her face.

"I-I'm sorry. Are you asking me?"

"Apparently." He waited.

"Um," It was surreal to her. Speaking about her Dad twice in the span of twenty-four hours. "He wore them both a lot. Not at the same time. The cardigan to church, the gym shirt when he would exercise in smelled very strongly of him for a while after his death. They don't anymore."

Sherlock nodded briefly. "Sentiment."

"Greif." She surprised herself by saying it out loud.

"What did they do with my coat?" He asked, she felt something twist insider at the realization that if he missed his coat this adjustment wasn't going to be easy on him.

"Scotland Yard, I think." Molly hadn't paid attention, in truth.

"No. John will have it." He stood up, walking to the door. He turned back to her as the door began to shut. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

The door shut. She sterilized the table. Stirred the ash in the hearth. Opened the tiny window, taking off her mask to breathe in the chilling London air. I need you; Thank you, Molly Hooper. Words that meant nothing trivial to Sherlock, and therefore she would hold them close to her heart for the rest of her life.

Her walk home was a long one. She realized she would have no trouble blending in with those Sherlock had left behind, because she was one of them. She would never see him again. She had saved him, but he was still dead. Her body began to cry, shaking in the cab and until she reached her flat. Sherlock Holmes was the best and wisest man she'd ever know.